《星期一和星期二》第5章

en　were　not　serious。　questions　as　to　the　value　of　money　and　power　were　almost　invariably　brushed　aside；　or　pressed　at　extreme　risk　to　the　asker。　“i’m　sure；”　said　jill；　“that　if　sir　harley　tightboots　hadn’t　been　carving　the　mutton　when　i　asked　him　about　the　capitalist　system　he　would　have　cut　my　throat。　the　only　reason　why　we　escaped　with　our　lives　over　and　over　again　is　that　men　are　at　once　so　hungry　and　so　chivalrous。　they　despise　us　too　much　to　mind　what　we　say。”
“of　course　they　despise　us；”　said　eleanor。　“at　the　same　time　how　do　you　account　for　this—i　made　enquiries　among　the　artists。　now；　no　woman　has　ever　been　an　artist；　has　she；　polls？”
“jane—austen—charlotte—bronte—george—eliot；”　cried　poll；　like　a　man　crying　muffins　in　a　back　street。
“damn　the　woman！”　someone　exclaimed。　“what　a　bore　she　is！”
“since　sappho　there　has　been　no　female　of　first　rate—”　eleanor　began；　quoting　from　a　weekly　newspaper。
“it’s　now　well　known　that　sappho　was　the　somewhat　lewd　invention　of　professor　hobkin；”　ruth　interrupted。
“anyhow；　there　is　no　reason　to　suppose　that　any　woman　ever　has　been　able　to　write　or　ever　will　be　able　to　write；”　eleanor　continued。　“and　yet；　whenever　i　go　among　authors　they　never　cease　to　talk　to　me　about　their　books。　masterly！　i　say；　or　shakespeare　himself！　（for　one　must　say　something）　and　i　assure　you；　they　believe　me。”
“that　proves　nothing；”　said　jane。　“they　all　do　it。　only；”　she　sighed；　“it　doesn’t　seem　to　help　us　much。　perhaps　we　had　better　examine　modern　literature　next。　liz；　it’s　your　turn。”
elizabeth　rose　and　said　that　in　order　to　prosecute　her　enquiry　she　had　dressed　as　a　man　and　been　taken　for　a　reviewer。
“i　have　read　new　books　pretty　steadily　for　the　past　five　years；”　said　she。　“mr。　wells　is　the　most　popular　living　writer；　then　es　mr。　arnold　bennett；　then　mr。　pton　makenzie；　mr。　mckenna　and　mr。　walpole　may　be　bracketed　together。”　she　sat　down。
“but　you’ve　told　us　nothing！”　we　expostulated。　“or　do　you　mean　that　these　gentlemen　have　greatly　surpassed　jane–elliot　and　that　english　fiction　is—where’s　that　review　of　yours？　oh；　yes；　‘safe　in　their　hands。’”
“safe；　quite　safe；”　she　said；　shifting　uneasily　from　foot　to　foot。　“and　i’m　sure　that　they　give　away　even　more　than　they　receive。”
we　were　all　sure　of　that。　“but；”　we　pressed　her；　“do　they　write　good　books？”
“good　books？”　she　said；　looking　at　the　ceiling　“you　must　remember；”　she　began；　speaking　with　extreme　rapidity；　“that　fiction　is　the　mirror　of　life。　and　you　can’t　deny　that　education　is　of　the　highest　importance；　and　that　it　would　be　extremely　annoying；　if　you　found　yourself　alone　at　brighton　late　at　night；　not　to　know　which　was　the　best　boarding　house　to　stay　at；　and　suppose　it　was　a　dripping　sunday　evening—wouldn’t　it　be　nice　to　go　to　the　movies？”
“but　what　has　that　got　to　do　with　it？”　we　asked。
“nothing—nothing—nothing　whatever；”　she　replied。
“well；　tell　us　the　truth；”　we　bade　her。
“the　truth？　but　isn’t　it　wonderful；”　she　broke　off—“mr。　chitter　has　written　a　weekly　article　for　the　past　thirty　years　upon　love　or　hot　buttered　toast　and　has　sent　all　his　sons　to　eton—”
“the　truth！”　we　demanded。
“oh；　the　truth；”　she　stammered；　“the　truth　has　nothing　to　do　with　literature；”　and　sitting　down　she　refused　to　say　another　word。
it　all　seemed　to　us　very　inconclusive。
“ladies；　we　must　try　to　sum　up　the　results；”　jane　was　beginning；　when　a　hum；　which　had　been　heard　for　some　time　through　the　open　window；　drowned　her　voice。
“war！　war！　war！　declaration　of　war！”　men　were　shouting　in　the　street　below。
we　looked　at　each　other　in　horror。
“what　war？”　we　cried。　“what　war？”　we　remembered；　too　late；　that　we　had　never　thought　of　sending　anyone　to　the　house　of　mons。　we　had　forgotten　all　about　it。　we　turned　to　poll；　who　had　reached　the　history　shelves　in　the　london　library；　and　asked　her　to　enlighten　us。
“why；”　we　cried；　“do　men　go　to　war？”
“sometimes　for　one　reason；　sometimes　for　another；”　she　replied　calmly。　“in　1760；　for　example—”　the　shouts　outside　drowned　her　words。　“again　in　1797—in　1804—it　was　the　austrians　in　1866–1870　was　the　franco–prussian—in　1900　on　the　other　hand—”
“but　it’s　now　1914！”　we　cut　her　short。
“ah；　i　don’t　know　what　they’re　going　to　war　for　now；”　she　admitted。
＇1＇
the　war　was　over　and　peace　was　in　process　of　being　signed；　when　i　once　more　found　myself　with　castalia　in　the　room　where　our　meetings　used　to　be　held。　we　began　idly　turning　over　the　pages　of　our　old　minute　books。　“queer；”　i　mused；　“to　see　what　we　were　thinking　five　years　ago。”　“we　are　agreed；”　castalia　quoted；　reading　over　my　shoulder；　“that　it　is　the　object　of　life　to　produce　good　people　and　good　books。”　we　made　no　ment　upon　that。　“a　good　man　is　at　any　rate　honest；　passionate　and　unworldly。”　“what　a　woman’s　language！”　i　observed。　“oh；　dear；”　cried　castalia；　pushing　the　book　away　from　her；　“what　fools　we　were！　it　was　all　poll’s　father’s　fault；”　she　went　on。　“i　believe　he　did　it　on　purpose—that　ridiculous　will；　i　mean；　forcing　poll　to　read　all　the　books　in　the　london　library。　if　we　hadn’t　learnt　to　read；”　she　said　bitterly；　“we　might　still　have　been　bearing　children　in　ignorance　and　that　i　believe　was　the　happiest　life　after　all。　i　know　what　you’re　going　to　say　about　war；”　she　checked　me；　“and　the　horror　of　bearing　children　to　see　them　killed；　but　our　mothers　did　it；　and　their　mothers；　and　their　mothers　before　them。　and　they　didn’t　plain。　they　couldn’t　read。　i’ve　done　my　best；”　she　sighed；　“to　prevent　my　little　girl　from　learning　to　read；　but　what’s　the　use？　i　caught　ann　only　yesterday　with　a　newspaper　in　her　hand　and　she　was　beginning　to　ask　me　if　it　was　‘true。’　next　she’ll　ask　me　whether　mr。　lloyd　george　is　a　good　man；　then　whether　mr。　arnold　bennett　is　a　good　novelist；　and　finally　whether　i　believe　in　god。　how　can　i　bring　my　daughter　up　to　believe　in　nothing？”　she　demanded。
“surely　you　could　teach　her　to　believe　that　a　man’s　intellect　is；　and　always　will　be；　fundamentally　superior　to　a　woman’s？”　i　suggested。　she　brightened　at　this　and　began　to　turn　over